Memories Are Not Forever
by shipthelimes
Summary: A series of flashbacks between O'Brien and Winston. Past quickly melds into present, and the couple finds themselves running for thier lives. Yaoi. Slash. Man-on-Man pairing. Lemons, as well. Read and review!
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters nor any of the ideas entailed

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters nor any of the ideas entailed.

Introduction: Seven Years

O'Brien rubbed his eyes wearily. The Inner Party had given him his orders and he had followed them for seven years. Swiveling in his chair, he mumbled a short string of profanity before fixing his eyes on the telescreen above him, which projected a man sitting motionlessly in a small, spartan room. The smallish man looked about nervously and his face was pulled taut into a mask of apathy, but O'Brien could easily see through the façade. He had always been more perceptive than his fellow Party members. He closed his eyes again and shook his head, muttering aloud,

"Ah, Winston… why does the Party even bother with you?" Winston, as though he heard the remark, gave a small involuntary jerk and hurriedly attempted to conceal the movement by rising from his chair and busying himself at the sink. The sound of running water echoed over the room, through the brightly lit telescreen and washed over O'Brien, who was struck by a sudden memory, an event that had occurred almost five years previously…

Chapter One: Guardian Angel

It was winter and Winston huddled pathetically in his bed, clothed in every scrap of fabric he owned. Even the telescreen appeared thinned and malnourished as its usual luster had diminished into a soft fiery glow which cast long, soft shadows across the room. Winston shivered violently and spasms shook through his body. His breath came in short, ragged gasps and his constant coughing and retching was tinted with red. White wispy clouds appeared with every pant and he tossed constantly, sweating feverishly and trying to hold back screams of pain, screams that caught in his throat and escaped as bloody coughs.

Winston was sick. Sick with what was irrelevant: maybe pneumonia, tuberculosis, even cancer. These were only a few possibilities, but only one thing was certain: Winston was dying. Days of malnourishment, of dehydration, of terrible living conditions had only compounded the severity of his illness. Even worse, he was still expected to attend work (which he had for the past few days) and he wasn't sure if he could manage another day. Absence from work was inexcusable: sickness was a weakness of a person, and flaws in the party were inexcusable. Winston's dizziness, caused by his high fever, transformed into feverish hallucinations, and he was unable to separate his tortured dreams from reality. He saw visions of his mother, a woman he never knew, a figure long forgotten. She looked tired and heavy, as though she was being crushed from some sort of invisible weight. Next to her stood a whimpering girl and Winston wondered of a long lost sister, a small thin thing. She had tears in her eyes and clutched her mother's hem in one hand and an empty chocolate wrapper in the other. They faded into darkness and Winston saw another vision. A glorious landscape filled his mind and he saw rolling hill tinted with sunset and beautiful mountains with a serpent-like river that snaked through the ridges. Weakly, Winston wondered if this was his sunset, if he was departing down a river to a place over the mountains, to a place beautiful and pure and lovely.

Winston closed his eyes and never expected to open them again… when he felt a large, heavy hand lift his head. Startled, Winston's eyes flew open and above him swam the image of a large man with beautiful green, cunning eyes and a great white light shining behind the great man, giving Winston the impression of wings. Eyelids trembling, Winston smiled feebly at the cliché forming on his lips,

"Are you an angel?" he asked softly. The man said nothing and slipped a capsule under Winston's tongue and strode swiftly to the telescreen and flipped an unseen switch. The telescreen dimmed slightly and with a groaning buzz died. Brows furrowed curiously, Winston tried to lift his head to see the empty screen, but fell back wheezing. Alarmed, the stranger quickly walked to the sink and retrieved a glass, filling almost to the brim. Rushing water replaced the omnipresent buzz of the telescreen and for a moment Winston thought he was surrounded by fountains. The figure shut the sink off and returned to Winston's bedside. He tilted Winston's head back and lifted the water to his lips. The angel said one word, the first word uttered since he had appeared,

"Swallow." He instructed, his voice deep and powerful. Winston moved his head in what he hoped was a nod and took a large gulp of water, the capsule sliding effortlessly down his throat. The effects of the medicine were almost immediate. Winston's flushed face cleared a bit and the stranger's creased and concerned expression relaxed visibly. Winston's fever was broken, but lights and colors still swirled behind his eyelids. Slowly, he opened his eyes and found himself staring deep into his rescuer's eyes, eyes that were soft and concerned and yet glinted with an absolute resolution. Closing his eyes again, Winston smiled and whispered quietly,

"Thank you…" He hadn't expected a reply but was surprised when he felt something light and warm brush across his lips. Winston sat up quickly and opened his eyes, but there was nothing in the room except the faint light from the telescreen and the slight taste of chocolate that lingered in the air and on Winston's lips.

O'Brien recovered from the memory, disturbed by an unfamiliar emotion that swept across him. Annoyed, he pushed the feeling away and returned his attention to Winston. Somewhat bitterly, he mumbled aloud,

"It's too bad the meds had a memory modifying agent in them… but a necessary precaution. He didn't even remember that he was sick at all…" O'Brien fell into silent brooding. It was torture for him, the sole bearer of a memory that was meant for two. Working with Winston was nearly impossible for O'Brien, being able to see Winston, but unable to reach out to hold his hand or caress his face, unable to even share a secret intimate memory with him. A while ago, weeks or maybe even months, he had met Winston's eye from across the room. Winston's face had exploded into shock, confusion, and raw misunderstanding. O'Brien had realized his mistake immediately. Angrily, he half-shouted,

"That fool!" The man thought O'Brien was part of the underground, part of The Brotherhood! Oh, how badly O'Brien wanted to tell Winston everything, the truth. But the higher powers had forbidden it, and that left O'Brien stuck in some kind of perverse museum, able to see but unable to touch.


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter 2: The Library and its Librarian

Chapter 2: The Library and its Librarian

O'Brien sat up quickly, almost falling out of his chair. Was that Winston… holding hands with a in the middle of a crowd with some WOMAN?! Was that idiot willing to risk everything for some Party whore? He would be, O'Brien thought bitterly, if he loved her. But this brazen act was beyond moronic. Not only were there telescreens set up around the square, there were Thought Police on every street corner, not to mention London's own overzealous citizens! O'Brien's face flushed crimson and he clenched his fists forcefully. This… this… _act_… of limitless stupidity infuriated O'Brien infinitely! But suddenly, O'Brien paled and his eyes widened. Was he angry because Winston was putting the job at risk, or was he upset for some other reason…? Was he really that involved with his job or was he livid… because he wasn't the one squeezing Winston's hand? O'Brien shook his head vehemently and rejected the idea immediately. Winston was a job, nothing more. Eventually, the couple on the telescreen separated (to O'Brien's great relief) and dispersed though the crowd. This sudden bout of rebellion unearthed one of O'Brien's mutinous ventures and he closed his eyes, smiling, relishing the memory from almost four years ago…

Winston hurriedly walked through the narrow street. The Prole sectors made him nervous and the Thought Police were sure to convict any Party Member found within the dark, stinking labyrinth. Winston turned corners at every opportunity, hazardously careening down the dank streets. He didn't really know what he was looking for; he didn't even know if he was looking for anything in particular, and regardless of the smoky, thick air, Winston felt he could breathe a little easier here. Winston felt more natural, more human (if such a thing is possible) around the Proles and the nerve-wracking excitement of breaking even the smallest of rules was intoxicating. He spied a pair of imposing figures harassing some Proles down the street so he quickly sidestepped into a small shop that was dark and curiously airy. The proprietor of the store barely looked up before returning to his lottery arithmetic. Winston carefully peered through the blackened window and after seeing one of the blue-clad Party member punch a Prole in the face, decided he should look around the shop. He turned around and stopped almost immediately stopped, paralyzed with absolute awe. It had taken a few minutes for Winston's eyes to adjust to the darkness and he realized that the "small" shop he had stepped into was actually a mammoth library with row upon row of shelves, each one shoved messily with hordes of books. He must have stood still for a very long (maybe even drooling a little) because the store-keep made a disparaging noise and said,

"What, never see a book before? Right, and WE'RE the idiots, huh…" Winston didn't hear him (or if he did, ignored him pointedly) and took several small steps forward. Winston had worked with literally tons of literature before, but never had he seen it so… unfettered, so unbound. He wondered briefly how this place had avoided detection from the Thought Police, but the thought was discarded as Winston began to wander down an aisle. Eventually, he spied an especially appealing book, bound in black leather and paged with gold. He lightly picked it up, heavily sat down and began to read. Winston read for hours and suddenly became aware of the great amount of time he had spent in the library. He put the book away (some story of a murderer in a faraway place called "St. Petersburg") and started towards the entrance when he heard a voice, a low murmuring sound that was all but inaudible. Frowning, he turned around and stepped towards the voice, a steady stream of eloquent words that he did not fully understand; the words almost sounded like they were in another language. The voice that read the words was deep and full and rich, coated in velvet and wrapped in texture. Carefully, Winston rounded the last corner that divided him from the mysterious voice and he saw a lone man with a small, white book in hand. The man was built muscularly and green eyes glittered at Winston from across the gloom, but he did not seem to notice Winston, so he continued reading,

"Ah Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?

Deny thy Father and refuse thy name

Or if thou wilt not be but sworn my love

And I'll no longer be a Capulet."

"Shall I hear more or shall I speak to this?"

"Tis but thy name that is mine enemy

What's Montague? It is nor hand nor foot,

Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part.

What's in a name? That which we call a rose

By any other name would smell as sweet:

So Romeo would, if he were not Romeo called,

Retain the divine perfection he owns:

Without that title Romeo part thy name,

And for that name which is no part of thee,

Take all I have."

"I have at thy word

Call me but love, and I'll be new Baptized,

Henceforth I never will be Romeo."

With the last line, the man snapped the book shut with a swift movement. He looked up and smiled at Winston, who erupted with unbidden words,

"What were you reading? It was… beautiful." The words surprised Winston more than the other man. Winston questioned whether the man was a Prole, but some sort of imperious aura suggested otherwise. The man looked slightly amused, with one eyebrow raised, as if he were playing some mildly interesting game. His deep, luxurious voice resounded vibrantly though the shadows,

"I was reading Romeo and Juliet. It's the story of two lovers who are forced apart, but they eventually have are with one another in the end."

"I'm glad. It would be sad if they couldn't be together." Winston supplemented. O'Brien laughed,

"No, you misunderstand. I literally meant "the end". They are finally together, but only in death. You see, their families didn't want them together, and they die because of their families' interference."

"Well, that's wrong." Winston protested. O'Brien raised the other eyebrow.

"Oh? And why is that? If the union were unprofitable and the participants unfit, why should it matter?"

"Because you can't control who you love." Winston answered and O'Brien's eyes narrowed. He turned around and placed the book in its appropriate nook.

"And that is exactly why other people should decide for you." O'Brien took several deliberate steps forward, but Winston did not cower away. They stood within inches of one another, Winston's winter-blue eyes clearly reflected in O'Brien's green. Winston spoke first,

"What about you? Have you never loved before? Can you imagine loving one and never being able to be with them because of what someone else says?" O'Brien's jaw clenched and his voice was dripping with venom,

"You. Know. Nothing. I live with that limitation every day of my life, knowing that there isn't even the slightest chance I will ever be with him." Winston looked taken aback,

"Him? What do you mean…-?" But Winston was cut off abruptly as O'Brien clapped a hand around his mouth and spun him around, pinning the much smaller man against a bookcase. He licked Winston's neck, crooning,

"You should be more careful with thoughts like those, comrade. You never know where the Thought Police lurk… I could be an agent, or an Inner Party member… What do you think about that?" he asked, his voice low and seductive. He freed his hand just enough to allow Winston to speak,

"I think you're bluffing. What would an Inner Party member be doing in the middle of a Prole library…?" He groaned slightly at the pressure of O'Brien's weight.

"Well, there's no one around to hear you scream…" O'Brien kissed the back of Winston's neck, who shivered and moaned, but this time not from pain? O'Brien's free hand slid down Winston's back and around his waist and O'Brien chuckled, speaking again into Winston's collar,

"And what about you? Have you never wanted, never loved?" Winston shivered again and the moan this time was recognizably sensual. O'Brien spun him around and cupped his face with a hand, holding his waist tight with the other. He took Winston's silence as another opportunity to continue the conversation,

"I've been watching you, Winston Smith." He said the name with curious inflection. "For years I've watched your every moment, I've tracked every aspect of your life… How do you feel? Pervaded? Violated? Come on, Winston, tell me how you feel…" but Winston answered the question with a question o his own,

"Did you like what you saw?" he whispered and placed his head on O'Brien's chest, who returned the soft gesture by wrapping his fingers in Winston's hair. Blue met green and gently O'Brien placed his lips on Winston's. Suddenly, Winston was reminded of chocolate and he could almost taste it in O'Brien, but he couldn't remember why this was so familiar. But before he had any more time to think, O'Brien's tongue slid past his lips and he soon lost track of everything, aware only of this heat that was quickly enveloping him. The storekeeper wrinkled his nose disdainfully and muttered, partially to himself,

"Oi! I got no problem with yer kind in here, but really now… a library? You think they could do that in private! It's like that rainbow parade I saw, oh, fifty years ago?"


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three: The Copy Room

Chapter Three: The Copy Room

A/n: I know, in 1984 they probably didn't have copy machines but… that doesn't matter. They were a necessary plot device. Heh…

O'Brien shook his head, slightly annoyed at the sudden wave of memories that rose unbidden. Winston Smith was an assignment, not a person, not a human, but a thing, a tool to be used and manipulated, and when broken, thrown away. Obsolete objects are of no importance: sentimental attachments were non-existent. But so is this war, O'Brien thought ironically. Doublethink worked both ways, a serious flaw in the system. If one was forced to believe two contradictory things existed simultaneously, why couldn't he think neither thing existed? For example if war is peace, what of unwar or unpeace, in newspeak? If a country were at war, it would have no peace and vice versa. But if one eliminated both ideas, what would be left? Mindless fighting like the present situation. There was no room for neutrality, no gray in the blacks and whites. But, thoughts like these were dangerous, even for Inner Party Members. O'Brien glanced sideways at the telescreen, and Winston was nowhere to be seen. Frowning, O'Brien leaned forward, straining to hear or see any movement. After a moment, O'Brien became aware of a faint scratching, barely audible through the silence. Smiling a sad sort of smile, O'Brien touched a knob on the side of telescreen and the screen's image changed. Now, the telescreen projected Winston sitting in a small alcove, unaware of a small hidden camera located above him. As O'Brien had guessed, Winston was hiding. The scratching came from an ancient pen that Winston grappled tightly with a shaking, sweaty fist. The crude instrument scrawled clumsily across thick, creamy paper and O'Brien made a mental note to attain some for himself. What Winston was writing was indecipherable from the camera's angle, but O'Brien guessed it was some anti-party scrawl. Of course, The Party had given Smith this exact flat with that exact nook, expecting the fool to use it.

"Ah… you're too predictable Winston. Maybe I was wrong about you…" O'Brien murmured to himself. But some distant fire in O'Brien's eye suggested otherwise. Winston continued to write and O'Brien suddenly remembered that Smith liked to write, and recalled a rather eventful day at their work place. It had happened two or three years previously…

The day had started normally enough. Winston awoke naked, for the summer this year was sweltering, and rose out of bed (causing a certain other man to blush furiously, but Winston was completely oblivious of his "audience"). He dressed in the rough blue overalls like he did everyday and made himself a breakfast of stale bread and warm water. Breakfast finished, Winston retrieved his shabby black briefcase, stepped out of his flat and began to descend the stairs, attempting to ignore the shrill screams from a nearby apartment,

"I don't care!" A childish voice screamed, "I want to see the bloody hangings, dammit! I'll…" the voice hesitated for a moment, but its volume returned shortly, "I'll report you to the Thought Police! I'll tell them how you want Eurasia to win!" There was the unmistakable sound of breaking glass and an elderly woman's pained yelp. Winston sped up, taking two steps at a time, trying to shut out Mrs. Parson's desperate pleas,

"Oh… OH MY GOD! Put… that down… AGGHH!" A loud bang could be heard and Winston tried to resist the images of poor Mrs. Parson trying to unlock the deadbolt on the door that formed in his mind. "They're trying to kill me! KILL ME! HELP! ANYONE! The Thought Police would show more mercy than you cretins!!" Another voice screamed, enraged,

"CRETINS?! I'LL SHOW YOU CRETINS!!"

"Put that down it's very sharp!! Don't point that at me- OH MY GOD, MY EYE!"

Winston finally managed to reach the bottom of the staircase and he hurriedly rushed to exit the building. He was hit by a blast of heat as he stepped out onto the crowded street. Shielding his eyes from the bright sky, he started his trek to the imposing, enormous white building, the Ministry of Truth. Winston reached Minitrue in a quarter hour and, with a sigh, sank into his chair. Work hadn't even begun and Winston was already tired. Sighing again, he began the laborious task of fixing a newspaper of its "doubleplusungood" material. Hours passed and Winston, who was so absorbed in his assignment, barely noticed the large shadow that covered his desk. Frowning, he looked up and was startled to find an Inner Party Member peering down at him over a pair of spectacles. Winston sat paralyzed, his mouth opened slightly and O'Brien's mouth twitched,

"He's so cute…" O'Brien thought silently before clearing his voice and speaking aloud,

"Erm… Smith. I have a task for you, too important to be transmitted through the tube systems. The Inner Party is having a large meeting and wants a copy of these files for each member." He said, holding up a file of papers. "These need to be copied away from prying eyes, as the Inner Party may be infiltrated by Eurasian spies so you're going to use a special copy room down on the fourth floor. The fourth floor copy room's telescreens will be disabled for an hour, starting exactly five minutes after the Daily Hate." He gave Winston a menacing look, "Do not be late. The doors will be locked at the exact specified time, in order to avoid any… interruptions." Another menacing look, "Do not forget these instructions. And we will know if you shirk this duty." Suddenly, he smiled good naturedly and slapped an incapacitated Winston on the shoulder, and strode away, leaving Winston unable to even draw breath.

The Two Minutes of Hate were over quickly. A nervous and sweating Winston exited the elevator as it stopped on the fourth floor. He walked down a long and twisting route that O'Brien had provided. Finally, Winston arrived (panting slightly) at the predetermined location and, throwing a look around his surroundings, stepped into the open door before him. The room was small and equilateral and a small copier stood against the right wall and opposite the copier resided a small chair. In between the two objects stood O'Brien, a serious expression mantled on his handsome face,

"You're late." He said, two words and yet so much fear they instilled.

"Y- yes… I know," Winston stammered, "But, I got lost and the elevator was

crowded and-".

"Enough!" O'Brien nearly shouted, "That doesn't matter. The Inner Party has called this off and withdrew the files. Too risky. So the important thing to do is to leave before…" but before O'Brien could finish his sentence the twin telescreens behind him died with a light buzz, and the door behind Winston slammed shut with a resounding thud. Winston spun around and reached for the door but O'Brien called out quickly,

"Stop. It's locked. I warned you, but… it's only for an hour. The repercussions are not so great." Winston breathed a sigh of relief and sat against the wall, next to the copier. O'Brien followed suit and sat down quietly in the chair. He pulled at the collar of his uniform: the air was stifling. The room was windowless, like the rest of the building, and the only respite from the strangling heat was the double vent in the ceiling, constantly filtering lukewarm air into the room. Five minutes had passed before O'Brien, flushed and started to perspire, stood up and began to undo his overall straps. Winston, unsure of what to do, took a stab at modesty and averted his eyes from the large man. O'Brien, noticing Winston's abashed behavior, rolled his eyes and finished undressing, throwing the overalls into a pile,

"What?" he said, reddening a bit more, "It's hot and we're both men. Besides,

I've still got my trunks on." Winston merely nodded and shifted uncomfortably. O'Brien had a big build. He had a large chest and his muscles were well toned. Winston stared, slightly envious of the larger man, and wiped some sweat from his brow. O'Brien watched him squirm with raised eyebrows for a few minutes before making a suggestion,

"Obviously you're suffering. Stop being so foolish and remove your overalls," Winston had been afraid this would happen. Winston glared at O'Brien, who amended the statement,

"Oh, not all of it. Just to the essentials." O'Brien added playfully, "You can't be that shy, can you?" Winston protested feebly,

"Its… it's not that. You see…"

"What, its not like you're wearing JUST those overalls."

"Well, clothing rations are scarce and it IS summer… I thought I might save up for a nice coat for winter…" he smiled meekly.

"Oh." O'Brien stared for a moment, and then shrugged. "Still, it's nothing I haven't seen before." Winston conceded and nodded nervously. With a pained sigh, he stood up and removed his one piece of clothing. He sat back down and O'Brien, glancing down for only a moment, raised his eyebrows again.

"Say, Winston, what size shoe do you wear?"

"Um… Eight. Why?" Winston asked.

"Testing a theory. I heard a rumor that big feet mean you have a big… but I guess it's not true." Winston looked confused but said nothing. Ten more minutes clicked by, and O'Brien slowly became aware of an unsettling feeling inside of him, a feeling he hadn't felt since a dark night in a bookstore… Winston noticed O'Brien's discomfort and stood up.

"O'Brien, are you okay?" Winston took a step closer and frowned. O'Brien pushed his chair back and quickly folded his hands over his lap,

"No! I mean… I'm fine, really." Winston took another step closer.

"Are you sure? You look… tense, or something."

"No, I'm just… it's just the heat. I'm okay…" but Winston interrupted him,

"What are you hiding?" he looked at O'Brien's folded hands.

"Nothing! Leave me alone! I… I order it!" he said, desperately trying to avoid a… confrontation. Winston smirked and walked directly to O'Brien,

"There are no telescreens here. And I want to help!" Winston insisted, taking O'Brien's arms in his hands. O'Brien reared back, tipping the chair over sideways. The two naked men crashed to the floor. Shouting, Winston fell on top of O'Brien, and the latter had thrown his hands backwards to cushion their fall. Winston stirred slightly and said,

"Ow, something's poking me… Oh." Realization dawned on him and O'Brien, grinning sheepishly, looked up at him. Winston returned the smile and winked.

"I told you I wanted to help…" he whispered into O'Brien's bare chest. "Maybe I still can…" O'Brien placed one hand under Winston's chin and brought their faces together, his other hand wrapped in Winston's hair. With feverish excitement they began, using the precious remaining minutes with care, relishing every touch, every kiss, every brush of skin. Hands roamed everywhere and O'Brien pushed himself on top, biting and kissing the base of Winston's neck, who groaned in appreciation.

Half an hour later, panting and sweating, they exited the room and wistfully, O'Brien slipped a needle from under his clothes into the back of Winston's neck, where bites could still be seen. When Winston would awake, he would remember nothing except the Two Minutes of Hate and the papers he had copied during that lustful hour.


	4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four: Silent Betrayal

O'Brien sat silently in his monitoring room. Almost violently, he snapped back in his chair, repulsed at these unbidden recollections, memories at which he smiled contentedly. Throwing a furtive glance over one shoulder, he rose from the chair, and stretched, scratching his bristled chin. He paced across the room several times, eyes fixed on the telescreens, which displayed a softly snoring Winston, who had fallen asleep in his little nook. O'Brien suddenly had a powerful urge to leave his security room and go to Winston, to carry him far away from the Party, from Big Brother, and from this awful place. Winston stirred quietly in his sleep, and the diary that had been resting in his lap fell to the floor, along with the little pen. O'Brien smiled again, some new, heart-wrenching emotion swelling in his chest. He stopped pacing and watched Winston sleep, content with this small moment of peace. The grin vanished quickly, as a horrible realization revealed itself to O'Brien. _The diary and pen had fallen in clear view of Winston's telescreen!_ Lower Party members, who might be watching at that very moment, unaware of O'Brien's duty, would storm into the apartment in just minutes, taking Winston to the Ministry. O'Brien paled, and ran to the door, breathing quickly. Slowly, he turned the handle, supernaturally aware of every minute creak and groan the door made. Cautiously, he peered down the long, gray hallway, and exited the monitoring room when he noted the hall's emptiness. Almost sprinting, he ran, passing tens, maybe even a hundred doors, before finally bursting through a large set of double doors at the end of the hall. Sunlight assaulted his sleep-deprived eyes, blinding him briefly, and he spun around, blinking stupidly. Squinting, he gawked at the crowded streets and began running down a wide, paved sidewalk, sure of his direction and positive of his destination. Ignoring the stares and comments of passing citizens, O'Brien ducked and weaved between them, once even knocking down a superior Party Member, who called out,

"O'Brien? Aren't you supposed to be on duty?" O'Brien pointedly ignored him as well, and continued running, sweat forming on his furrowed brows and kneaded temples. As he ran, a drop of perspiration ran down one cheek, like an apprehensive tear preparing for the worst.

O'Brien reached the end of an especially lonely street and skidded to a stop, bent double and wheezing loudly. He looked up and saw a single lit window in the apartment complex. Swallowing, O'Brien put a quivering hand on the doorknob and stepped inside. Shadows covered the lobby, a drab dark place with only one other person inside. O'Brien, mentally collecting himself, took several confident steps forward and approached the desk. The desk clerk, a woman of unremarkable height and stature, didn't even look up. O'Brien cleared his throat and said in a deep, imperious voice,

"Is Winston Smith… available?" The woman, who was typing furiously, took a single side glance at a paper on her desk and responded curtly,

"Yes, he did not have to report to work today, and he did not sign out." O'Brien nodded, somewhat relieved. 'They haven't taken him yet… I may have time.' He thought.

"Thank you." O'Brien stepped away, and crossed the room to the elevator. He pushed the "UP" button, and was rewarded with a horrid screeching noise, followed by a mechanical whirr, which stopped suddenly and was replaced by a loud popping noise. O'Brien stepped back, and for the first time noticed the "Out-of-Order" sign nailed to the elevator door.

"Stairs…" O'Brien muttered. Spying the staircase in a particularly dark corner, he rushed to it and placed a heavy, shaking hand on the balustrade, whispering,

"Winston… you'd better be okay." O'Brien took a deep breath and began his ascent into darkness. His footsteps echoed out of earshot, and the woman at the desk stopped typing. Smiling venomously, she picked up the phone off her desk and dialed a number. She moved the receiver to her ear and said just two words,

"He's here."

O'Brien panted deeply as he reached the next landing.

"Please be floor four… please…" He looked up and saw a tarnished placard, which read in plain and inelegant scrawl, "Floor Four". A small sigh escaped O'Brien before he raced down the dank corridor. He flew past several doors, searching frantically for the one he had seen so many times on that telescreen. Eventually, he came to the appropriate frame, and with a grunt, he snapped his right leg with great force and kicked the door off of its hinges. O'Brien rushed into an empty room, occupied with no one save a sleepy, startled Winston. O'Brien became overwhelmed with pure feeling, and he embraced Winston tightly, as if he would never let go. Winston, still confused, wasn't sure what to do. O'Brien lifted his chin with one hand and kissed him gently, the other hand entangling itself in Winston's hair. Winston's eyes widened, not by the sudden kiss, but by the smells and tastes that overcame his senses. He smelled dust, the pages of an ancient book, and the mustiness of an ill-used library. He tasted medicine and water, streams of transparent music pouring over his soul harmoniously. He heard the monotone hum of a copy machine, but the rhythm was sensational, the jolts and whirrs symphonious. He felt the warmth of past memories, all flooding towards him, as if another body was supplying the heat. But most of all, he noticed the chocolate, the taste of it in O'Brien, the smell of it from O'Brien's clothes, and the memory of it being in every sensual, hidden memory, which had lain dormant for too long. With sudden ferocity, Winston kissed back, grasping roughly at O'Brien's broad shoulders. O'Brien broke the kiss with great effort, holding Winston tightly to his chest. Tears formed in his eyes as he said,

"I thought I had lost you…" Winston buried his face into O'Brien, but said nothing. O'Brien pulled himself away, his jaw set firmly.

"We're getting out of here," He said seriously. "Grab the diary and the pen, and we'll go."

"Alright," Winston responded, and opened a drawer near his bed. O'Brien turned around, and was horror stricken to see Winston withdraw the diary from the end table. O'Brien said loudly,

"Did you put that away?" His voice was deathly.

"No. I haven't written in several days. And wait, how did you know about the diary in the first place?" O'Brien looked at Winston, who paled and took a step back. O'Brien swallowed, and said,

"Winston, you're going to have to trust me. Please. I explain everything later, but we need to go NOW. I think this is-" but he was interrupted in mid sentence.

"A trap? How astute of you." A feminine voice said behind him. O'Brien spun around to see three figures enter the room, led by a woman with an icy, malevolent expression on her face. All were dressed in insidious black clothing, and her two companions wore masks. "You never were very clever." O'Brien's lip curled, and he positioned himself between Winston and the strangers. The woman continued, her eyes flashing triumphantly,

"And you certainly weren't clever enough now. You caught on just a tad too slowly…" She laughed, a girlish giggle that echoed painfully through the apartment. O'Brien snarled.

"Do you know who I am?" He squared his shoulders threateningly, "You will remove yourself this very instant." The woman cackled again, her companions smirking.

"And do you know who _I_ am, O'Brien?" She took a step forward, her heels clicking menacingly on the tile floor. "I am your superior, O'Brien. I am your better. You are nothing more than a pawn, like the others." O'Brien's eyes widened,

"You mean… after all this time…" The woman clapped her hands together childishly,

"Finally caught on, have you?" O'Brien swallowed hard and said,

"So it was never about Winston…" Winston looked at O'Brien with questioning eyes. O'Brien returned the look with a hesitant explanation,

"Seven years ago… I was assigned to watch you. Observe you. The Party said that you had potential…those were my orders. But I never received any more afterwards. So I kept watching, learning more and more about you until… I became attached. And when I was watching you today, you dropped your diary in view of the telescreen. Or, so I thought…" Winston understood,

"You came to rescue me…" he said slowly, and O'Brien nodded. "You came because you thought I was going to be vaporized. You were a Party Member. But what you saw was fake. So you came…" O'Brien nodded again, sadly and slowly. The woman cackled, saying,

"And it was me! I fed you that false footage! It was never about that worthless Winston," Winston flinched, and O'Brien took his hand," And now, I have you caught, in direct defiance of your orders! They'll have no choice but to execute you!" O'Brien shook his head,

"Why? I don't even know who you are. Why go to such lengths to remove me?" The woman jumped forward, stomping her feet and screaming,

"Because! You're trying to take away Winston! You're trying to steal the only man that I've truly loved! With you out of the way, he'd be mine!" Winston gasped, and whispered,

"Julia?" But no one heard him. O'Brien frowned,

"But I wouldn't have come if you hadn't shown that clip!"

Julia howled, "LIES! I know about your past… about what you two have done! It would have been only a matter of time till you took him!" She shuddered visibly. "He's mine…" she spat.

"So now what?" O'Brien asked, trying to figure out a way to escape. Julia suddenly regained her composure, speaking no longer in howls and screams, but in a lady like voice,

"I have a deal for you, O'Brien." She pulled a vicious looking pistol from a pocket, and pointed it at O'Brien's chest. "I was ordered to kill you, O'Brien. But I'm feeling generous." She paused, then smiled malevolently, "Give me Winston, and I'll let you live. Refuse, and you both will die. If I can't have him, no one will." O'Brien shook his head,

"No…" but Winston interrupted,

"Fine." O'Brien looked at him in disbelief. Winston smiled sadly and continued, "I'll go with you Julia. And O'Brien will live." He stepped forward, and O'Brien pleaded desperately,

"No, Winston… don't do this." Winston looked at him with melancholy eyes,

"It's okay," he said, "Really. I want you to live. This is… This is the only way for all of us to leave alive. I want you to live: don't waste your life for mine." O'Brien shook his head,

"I'm not wasting it! And this is not okay!" he shook his head angrily, "Remember what I read you, in that library? Remember the two lovers who were forced apart? You said that it wasn't fair, that it wasn't right. How is this any different?" His voice became limp, "Winston… I love you." Winston looked away from O'Brien's eyes, unable to face him. Julia screeched again, her voice a torrent of rage,

"But I loved him too! I had him! We had laid together for months, whispering that same phrase to one another!" She pointed at O'Brien accusingly, "Did you? Did you spend days and weeks with him? How much time have you actually spent with your 'love'? Probably not even a week, all things considered! You don't deserve him, O'Brien! You don't deserve this!" O'Brien croaked feebly,

"No…" and Julia giggled maniacally,

"No!" She howled, "No! You watched him from that little, perverse room of yours, molesting him on whim and desire!" O'Brien couldn't speak, and Winston frowned, shaking his head,

"That isn't true. When he did what he did… I was aware and willing. And he… we had slept together long before I knew you, Julia." Julia gritted her teeth, growling dangerously,

"That doesn't matter, Winston. You will come with me, and we will love one another, or he will die." Winston nodded, and he turned to O'Brien,

"I did love her, once. Maybe I can again… O'Brien, you've become a part of me. She will hold to her word: she won't kill you once she has me, because she knows that I could not live past your death. If I stay, she will kill us both. This is… the only way." he said quietly, squeezing O'Brien's hand. He released it after a moment, and walked forward, meeting Julia in the center of the room. She almost jumped into Winston's arms, and they embraced. O'Brien couldn't say anything, his numb mind refusing what his eyes saw. Julia's pistol fell to the floor, and her two companions gave each other a sidelong glance. O'Brien, who was staring at Winston and Julia, was oblivious to Julia's sidekicks, and one of them pulled a long silver pistol from his black folds. Too late, O'Brien noticed the glint from across the room, and a gunshot shattered the silence. O'Brien flinched, and Winston gave a small gasp, but it was Julia who screamed. Blood stained the ground beneath her, and her breath came in ragged gasps. O'Brien leaped in front of Winston and Julia, but went no farther. The assassin waved his gun menacingly, and spoke in deathly tones,

"Move no closer, or become like her." O'Brien froze, and he heard Winston let out a muffled sob. The killer continued, "She failed in her task; I will not fail at mine. She directly disobeyed her orders, and I will not make that same mistake. The Party expected her to fail, and I am merely the deliver of the consequences. Insanity cannot be controlled. She had to be removed." O'Brien shivered. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to die. Julia stumbled on her words, red foam spilling at the corner's of her mouth,

"I just… I just wanted to be happy…" she whispered, feebly clutching at Winston's clothes, "I just… wanted to feel loved… is that…" she took a final breath, her chest shuddering with the effort, "is that so wrong?" A tear-shaped drop of blood rolled down her face, and her chest fell for the last time. She breathed no more. The man in black continued, some hint of triumph in his voice,

"With her out of the way, I can ascend another rank in the Party!" He moved pointed the gun between O'Brien's eyes and chuckled, "I will have completed two missions in one. What a productive day!" His laugh became hysterical, and his trigger finger twitched. O'Brien closed his eyes, and the apartment witnessed a second gunshot. His ears were ringing, but he felt no pain. He opened his eyes, and was startled to see the man clutching his chest, scarlet rivulets escaping between his fingers. He collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain. The final third companion took a step back, his apprehensive eyes focused on something behind O'Brien. Swiftly, he stepped out of the apartment, and his echoing footsteps died out in seconds. O'Brien spun around, and found a shaking Winston, who was clutching Julia's pistol. He sniffed and blinked hard, before dissolving into tears,

"No! No… I'm a murderer…" he moaned, staring at the black-clothed corpse. "I killed him…" O'Brien shook his head,

"Winston, we need to get out of here, now." He took Winston by the shoulders, and stared hard into his blue eyes, "Listen. We will have time to regret later, but only if we live. The man who escaped, he was a Street Runner. We only have a few minutes before he reached the Ministry of Love. We need to get out of here." Winston wiped his eyes, and nodded, handing the gun to O'Brien,

"Here… we might… need this," He looked as if the thought sickened him. O'Brien nodded in agreement, but pushed the weapon back into Winston's hands,

"Keep it." He said, grabbing the assassin's gun, "We both need to be protected." Winston swallowed, but took the gun and shoved it in his pocket. O'Brien and Winston hurried out of the room, leaving the room empty save for the sightless eyes of the rejected lover and empty hands of the ambitious failure.

The telescreen was off. It had been off for the past hour. Two masked figures entered the room, and hovered over Julia's body. They looked over it curiously, and finally, one of them spoke,

"So pitiful, you are. Nothing but a broken body, an empty husk devoid of humanity." The other stranger chuckled,

"That's exactly how we want them. You will serve us far better in death, than you ever did in life, Julia." They exchanged glances, their eyes shining unnaturally. With a heave, they lifted Julia's corpse between them, and exited the room.

An hour later, the building was in flames. According to the Ministry of Truth, there were no survivors. The origin of the fire was unknown, but spectators say that it started on the Fourth Floor.


End file.
